Waking Up the Creative

2014 and 2015 have been an interesting collection of potholes, roadblocks, detours, and downed bridges in regards to writing. The last time I journeyed through an extended period of not writing (and no desire to do so) began back in 2006. Life found me, then. That is, instead of living vicariously through my characters, I found myself embroiled in Life and its many adventures.

But even though my life seemed to be nothing but blessings, people commented that I didn’t seem to have joy. That was in 2008. The comment made me reevaluate my heart. What was keeping me from joy?

Simply put, I missed writing. That was the first year I participated in NaNoWriMo. Life was good again.

2013. We moved for the fourth time in as many years, and I lost my job. it took most of the year for me to find another job. It was a blow to my self-esteem, and my writing suffered for it. Thankfully, after thanksgiving I was hired at my current job.

2014. We moved again, and because of the fact my husband was away from home on projects, my sister and I were solely responsible for finding the house and getting us moved. Later in the year, my mom was diagnosed with NASH (non alcoholic cirrhosis) and passed away 3 months later.

It was a blow no one expects. Two weeks after her death, I released book 2 of my romance series and didn’t look back. I didn’t think about another character, nor even read a book. I didn’t care about them anymore.

2015. We decided to look at purchasing land and build a home. Life had other plans. Months later, we shifted to the possibility of buying a home instead. Again, what should have been simple was not. Life had long since become an exercise, navigating disappointment after disappointment just trying to get to the other side.

Usually, I vented my frustrations and irritations through my writing, but this time my characters didn’t appeal to me. I had no desire to explore what I was feeling, why I felt what I did, and how to get to the better side of it all. Thinking of my characters and my stories brought to mind the pain of my mother’s death. She had always been my brainstorm partner. My fact checker. My sounding board. Not only that, both novels I would have been working on had main characters struggling with the loss of a parent. To write more in-depth about those struggles would have revealed my own agony, starkly and without mercy. I simply was not ready to face the depths of what I felt.

It was clear how the lack of writing was affecting my attitude. I knew it. The husband knew it. But whenever people would ask me about my writing… I just couldn’t. When the husband tried to encourage me to get into it again… I couldn’t. The thought of reacquainting myself with my characters HURT. I dreaded the idea of going to the next novel to get it finished. Writing should never be an act of dread. I think everyone understood that I needed time, and that fact helped me be okay with giving myself that time. Even my characters gave me permission to be apart from them. It could be heard and felt in their silence.

They left me in my corner to mourn and try to find the strength to get up again.

Then, one day last week, I found myself tip-toeing around the characters and story of book 3. I didn’t feel the shadow of dread. Instead, there was a sigh of relief. A clear impression that my characters, all this time, were simply resting their hands upon my heart and encouraging me to open my eyes. Finally, I believed I might be ready to step forward into the journey of repairing myself after an unfathomable loss.

And you know what? There is joy in my life again. There is a realization that, through my writing, I can revisit memories of my mother. I can channel my pain and my joy my readers to be comforted. Healed. Encouraged. Yes, Life is still sending challenges and disappointments, but at least now there is excitement and eagerness because I can finally see the hint of light on the other side.

What challenges have you faced [are facing] this year?

Nona King


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Here’s the thing

About being a writer…

Being a writer is hard – difficult – a challenge– however you want to phrase the truth. We have our good days, and our bad days. Some days it is a challenge to continue, no matter what those Pinterest quotes might tell you. Writers get tired, exhausted, and often consider throwing in the pen. If we didn’t, I don’t believe we are being honest with ourselves as a “creative” soul.

But pushing beyond those challenges and doubts IS what will define us as a person and as a writer.

To say that we don’t give a @#!*% what others say is naive. We do, otherwise what is the point of writing if not to impart a portion of our characters and our passion to others? But do we allow what others say affect us for eternity? Heavens no! We write on, for that is what it means to be a writer.

It helps motivate us to find our cavalier selves which will save our sanity in the future.


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Not “Because I Can”

There are so many words, phrases, and concepts swirling around in my head that I’m having a bit of difficulty grasping onto a collection of coherent thoughts to put down here. There is the knowledge that I have been wanting to put something here for quite a few weeks only to have that inclination to do so pop like a detergent bubble.

A post about the contagions of excitement.

Or a post about the potency of a creative sigh before one takes another step forward.

Today is usually when I post the next installment of my fantasy adventure serial, The Soul Cycle: Para. It’s such a temptation to dive back in before I know for certain I’m ready to do so. It’s such a thin line, the renewal of a writer. Especially when it is drilled into us the importance of writing something every day.

Unfortunately, that can sometimes drain us of the motivation and inspiration that is so important to the passion of a writer. Obligation and guilt are potent poisons to our muses. Unless, of course, you are the style of writer where these are more of a motivator than a hindrance.

But I, for one, have never cared for the chill of “I write because I can,” or “I write because I should produce at least 500 words every day.”

I began writing because I couldn’t help myself.

There throbbed within my soul the pulse of dozens of characters. They had stories and life experiences aching to be exposed and experienced. To teach me who I was, who I could be, and what I had to offer the world. I didn’t take the time to care about what rules were followed where, or how to portray something correctly. I saw these characters and their lives in my mind’s eye as real as if they were a memory of an actual friend or family member. How could I not write about their agonies and joys?

This is how I wrote for almost twenty years. I suppose you could say I wrote with reckless abandon. With passion. With a certainty in the importance of what my characters had to say. That they had a right to be written.

Then I read a how-to writing book that told me I went about it all wrong. But how can I be doing it wrong when the most basic rule of being a writer is TO WRITE? When I am so obsessed with following the rules and outlines and “do”s and “don’t”s that I can no longer produce, isn’t THAT going about it all wrong?

WriteOn_KathyJeffords
If I sing a song with pretty words and pretty sounds but no passion, there is no interest, yes?

If I paint a picture with correct lines and shades and shadows but with no passion, there is no depth, yes?

So that is why I now trek this uphill battle to once again find my way to my characters. Somewhere along the way I began speaking a different language and missed a turn because I couldn’t understand what a sign said. Balance. Understanding. Knowing when to push and when to simply sit there and listen…. But at present I’m trying to re-learn how to allow myself to be still. To not allow distraction from the challenge of re-discovering my place simply because it’s uncomfortable, this silence. This stillness.

But the silence is not always scary. It is not always wrong. Sitting in silence is the only way to hear the whisper.


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Here’s the thing: Habits

About Habits

A daily habit of writing is one of the most important things for a writer. That’s why writing for at least an hour each day is one of my goals/resolves for this year. Unfortunately, the week before Christmas my sciatic decided to create an unexpected challenge and has refused to quickly respond to Chiropractic and Massage treatment. This sciatic issues makes it nigh on impossible for me to sit in my office chair for longer than five minutes without exacerbating the issue.

So now I have an additional challenge of trying to figure out a way to get writing done that doesn’t extend an already extensive situation of pain. Good times.

But the writer’s life has always been fraught with challenges, and that is the one truth I need to clutch closely to my heart. Instead of letting the pain and challenge further hamper my inspiration and motivation, can I use it as a spike to my determination? Aye, there’s the rub, because at the moment I’m not certain how to do that, especially since the only comfortable position is on the leather couch in such a position that makes it impossible to write either long-hand or on the computer.

Maybe I will take my sister up on her offer of letting me borrow her office chair, which doesn’t seem to irritate my sciatic like my ergonomic office chair does….

Nona King


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Ep. 3 | Para: A Crimson Portrait | #TuesdaySerial

“It’s not here, Master.”

“Damn it, you fools! It must be here.”

They widened their search and Para held her breath as she clutched tighter to Phillip, hearing the men’s footsteps draw closer with each passing moment. Her breath caught in her throat, tears burning a path of terror down her flaming cheeks. At any instant she expected to feel a moment of excruciating pain and then the oblivion of death.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into Phillip’s neck.

“I’ll protect you, Par. When I give you the signal, run as fast as you can to the grove.”

She shook her head. “Don’t leave me alone.”

“Don’t be a stupid girl and do what I say—Nefa take him. He’s looking this way…. I think he’s seen us. Damn it. Get ready.”

“Phillip….”

“You’ll be fine. Just run as fast as you can, as if Nefa himself were on your ass. Promise?”

Para reluctantly inclined her head, pulling herself back from her clutch of her friend to face the grove, legs and arms trembling as she worried her lower lip until she tasted blood.

“Wait.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her down, so close she could smell the mixture of soil and grass. She covered her nose and mouth to keep from sneezing. “Look.”

Para forced her eyes from Phillip’s sweating face to the man dressed in brown and green–a hunter–who spoke with the man in black with the red, fingerless gloves.

“Are you certain?” the man in black asked. The slowness of his speech belied a suspicious nature. Para had heard Phillip ask questions like that plenty of times.

“Quite.” The hunter crouched and motioned to the tracks in the grass around them.

He was a hunter! “Phillip, he knows we’re here! He’s a hunter, and he can read trail sign better than anyone. My dad says so!”

“Be quiet, you fool girl, or they really will know we’re here.” He squashed her down into the grass, half on top of her to keep her still.

Para fought back the terror and forced her ears to hear what the hunter told the man in black.

“Here. He fell from his horse. The blood. Here and here? It appears he may have come upon a child, two, in actuality, see the compacted grass around? But they were scared off, likely at our approach, and made off toward Albervalley, the same as our luckless rider, although by a slightly different route. We will very likely overtake them on the way. But only should we leave now.”

The man in black caressed his dark face with his long, snakelike fingers, his glance flicking toward the brush nearly sending Para into hysterics. If not for the strong grip of Phillip’s hand on her shoulder, she would have fallen to literal pieces. Then the man barked orders and mounted, casting the hunter another intense examination before shifting his great, gray beast to the south.

The hunter stood with slow intensity, wiping the dirt and soil from his hands before calling his mount with a series of clicks. The roan bobbed its head and nudged the hunter’s shoulder, almost as if it sought an answer to a silent question. The hunter said nothing, and both Phillip and Para held their breath as he pulled himself into the saddle and then shifted his focus to their exact position for an agonizingly long moment.

Then he galloped after the others, the thunder of the hooves echoing Para’s heartbeat. She covered her face and wailed, sobs of terror racking her shoulders occasionally jostled by Phillip’s urgings to her feet.

“Par! We’ve got to get back and warn the others,” he insisted, tugging her to her feet.

Nodding, sobbing, and clutching at his hand the two ran to the rhythm of pounding hooves and hearts toward home. The hunter said they ran toward Albervalley. Maybe they would miss home? Maybe they wouldn’t find Donn? The thought of her brother’s face on that of the man with the arrows and burns tripped her feet and sent her sprawling, blood now trickling from her nose.

“Phillip, what if they find Donn?”

“They won’t. Now come on.” He pulled, almost dragged, her to her feet and plunged headlong forward, Para blindly following and unable to see through her tears.

She swiped a sleeve across her face, trying so desperately to be as brave as Phillip. As tough as Donn. As strong as her mother. Phillip was right, they had to hurry. They had to warn the others. Tell the constable what had happened. And Lord Henry! They had to get to the castle. Para blinked down at her free hand, her white-knuckled fingers clutching the blood smeared frosted glass and recalling the hoarse pleading of the man.

They stumbled to a stop, unable to keep their footing at the sudden and cataclysmic shaking of the ground beneath their feet. The two stared, wide-eyed, at the ground, fully expecting the earth to open up and swallow them. A roar shuddered the silence, and Phillip and Para stared toward the horizon and the direction of their little hamlet. Pillars of smoke twisted the sky, crimson and orange a tainted portrait of flame and blood.

Para yanked free and sprinted forward, screeching in panicked oblivion to the consequences. Then she found herself tumbling, dragged sobbing and kicking to a smoldering portion of wall of one of the hamlet’s many storage barns.

“Stupid girl,” Phillip hissed, his grimy hand cupped over her mouth to stifle her screams. “Do you want to die?”

She clapped her hands over her ears, desperately trying to muffle the wails of terror and screams of death that rent the late morning air just a few feet beyond their hiding place. “Mamma, no….”

If not for Phillip’s tight grip she would have willingly run into the flames and mayhem just so she didn’t have to visualize her father and mother’s deaths. Her friends. Phillip’s mom with the sad smile. The blacksmith who always missed the spittoon and hit the neighbor’s white cat when he thought they weren’t looking. Why would someone do something like this? Burn a helpless village? It made no sense. Even though her fingers tightened around the vial, it still made no sense.

Para slumped back against the wall, hiding her face under her arms as she cried herself to sleep and blissful oblivion.

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To be continued. For BACK EPISODES, navigate to the “book page” here: The Soul Cycle: Para.

This series is now being serialized on JukePop Serials, a free site. You can follow updates from any browser, or use their free app and receive updates in real-time. Also, each time you read to the next episode on JukePop, this story will receive a “+vote” and support me as a JukePop Serial author.

Episodes on JukePop have been further refined and edited from these rough versions.

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Author’s Note: The Soul Cycle started way back in November 2008 (for my first National Novel Writing Month venture) when I took one of my husband’s adventure module outlines–complete with maps and descriptions–and wrote life into Para and Mun, a pair of adventurers who had been traveling together for more than three years. The title: To Save A Soul.

The following year I wrote the continuation of that adventure, Silver and Iron, although it remains unfinished, and continued to brainstorm further adventures for my beloved Para and Mun. For the 2012 NaNoWriMo adventure, I wrote a prequel explaining Para Sedi and all her idiosyncrasies. I even began outlining Mun’s introductory novel, which would also include how he and Para first met.

The subject of this weekly serial will be Para & Mun’s story from their utter beginning.

 

 


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